


These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal

by HelloTragic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cop AU, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friends to Enemies, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloTragic/pseuds/HelloTragic
Summary: It’s not her fault. She’s still new and doesn’t know. He’s not flawless. Not anymore. He’s got scars, ones she’s seen first hand. Ones she helped tend to. His body is covered in them. There’s a thin red line where he took a bottle to the face during his early beat cop days. There’s another angry red mark on his torso from where he was stabbed with a knife in his ribs. The one where he had his hand slammed in a locker as a teenager has long since faded, only the barest hint remaining, only visible in just the right lighting.There’s two oval scars now too. One in his stomach and one on his chest. Those are from the worst day of her life.But none of those scars compare to the ones he carries on the inside. The self-inflicted cuts he makes to his soul never quite healing over. He blames himself.  It’s not his fault.There’s a scar on her soul now too. One he left. A piece of her heart forever missing.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 65
Kudos: 110





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [searchingwardrobes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingwardrobes/gifts).



> I'm a day late but hopefully not a dollar short. Happy birthday to Searching Wardrobes. This woman has the most generous heart and I hope she knows hope much she is loved and appreciated by all of us!

She’s been listening to Annie drone on for the better part of their lunch break. The girl is sweet, she really is, but she talks. A lot. So much so that Emma started to tune her out sometime between finishing her chips and opening her brownie. She nods her head in what she hopes are all the right places. But when she hears Killian’s name, Annie has her full attention again.

“I wonder what he’s like in bed.” It’s said with the longing sigh of a high school girl with her first crush and Emma has to physically hit her chest to dislodge the bite of brownie she just choked on. “Have you and he ever...”

The sentence drops off but Emma knows exactly what Annie is getting at. Have she and Killian ever slept together. The answer is no, despite half of the station house being 100% sure they have before. Past tense. No one thinks it’s happening anymore.

“No.” Her voice catches and she hopes that the woman doesn’t pick up on it.

“Well he’s a goddamn masterpiece. I mean, just look at those arms!” Emma is well aware of how toned his arms are. She used to be intimately familiar with them. "I can only imagine how cut he is under that uniform. Like a flawless Greek God.”

It’s not her fault. She’s still new and doesn’t know. He’s not flawless. Not anymore. He’s got scars, ones she’s seen first hand. Ones she helped tend to. His body is covered in them. There’s a thin red line where he took a bottle to the face during his early beat cop days. There’s another angry red mark on his torso from where he was stabbed with a knife in his ribs. The one where he had his hand slammed in a locker as a teenager has long since faded, only the barest hint remaining, only visible in just the right lighting.

There’s two oval scars now too. One in his stomach and one on his chest. Those are from the worst day of her life.

But none of those scars compare to the ones he carries on the inside. The self-inflicted cuts he makes to his soul never quite healing over. He blames himself. It’s not his fault. Liam was always so headstrong and there was no way Killian could have talked him out of confronting the guy.

Sometimes she still has nightmares. She sees the gun raise in slow motion but she’s frozen. In her dreams the bullets get her too and she falls to the ground right next to Killian. She watches helplessly as he tells her that he loves her, and then he’s gone and all she can do is wait for her turn. That’s when she wakes up gasping for air, clutching her chest.

That’s not what really happened. But the truth almost feels worse. She heard him yelling for backup over the radio. Heard the officer down call and then nothing. The speaker went silent. She and Boothe raced there, sirens blaring, red lights run. They were the next on scene.

Liam was already gone. Boothe told her that, but at the time, her only focus was on Killian. There was so much blood and it was all she could do to keep it together enough to keep pressure on both of his wounds. Boothe tried to help, but she wouldn’t let him. She couldn’t bring herself to let Killian go, so instead she screamed at him to get away. That she had it.

She heard the ambulance coming, but it was still blocks away and Killian was fading. She pleaded with him to hold on. To stay with her. To stay  _ for _ her. But he was tired and she knew he’d given up. When he told her that he loved her, that he’d always loved her and he was sorry that he never told her before, she knew it was a goodbye.

He lived by some miracle. The doctors couldn’t even explain it, but he didn’t come back whole. He changed after that. Those fleeting glances, the flirtations and innuendo, the easy physical affection all gone now. He’s shut her out. He’s shut out the world and whatever chance they once had is now long gone. She’s never stopped loving him, never will stop, despite him being lost to her now.

There’s a scar on her soul now too. One he left. A piece of her heart forever missing.

He’s a Captain now, a dream that came at the expense of his brother’s life. One that he resents to his very core. He puts on a mask, but she can see it when he doesn’t know she’s looking. When he’s in his office with the blinds only partially drawn. The way his barely visible hands ball into fists. It’s a nervous habit, one she noticed for the first time when they were studying for the detectives exam.

_ He’s been clenching the armrest of the couch for the better part of twenty minutes, and while it didn’t bother her at first, realizing that he’s now starting to leave marks in her favorite sofa may be the final straw in an otherwise frustrating night. He knows all of the answers, more than her and he’s still stressed about failing, when it’s become painfully obvious that she’s the only one that should be worried.  _

_ It’s not that she hasn’t studied, she’s just not great with standardized testing. She over thinks everything and starts contemplating of all of the unnamed variables that could affect the answer, and how is she supposed to know if the drop of red paint is significant? Are they in an industrial warehouse or in the middle of a grassy park? Are they sure it’s paint and not blood splatter? How is she supposed to answer without knowing the facts? _

_ He’s told her twice tonight to get out of her own head, to focus on her gut, that it’s never lied to her before, but it’s easier said than done, especially when she hasn’t been able to convince him of the same damn thing. _

_ “Killian, you’ve got this. Why are you so worked up?” _

_ He takes a deep breath and she can see a storm brewing behind his eyes. He’s rarely like this. So serious and stoic.  _

_ “It’s not,” he pauses, thinking over his words. He’s also rarely at a lose for those too. “Swan, I’m not worried that I’m going to fail the test. It’s more that I’m worried I won’t live up to expectations.” _

_ “What expectations? Everyone up at the station loves you, lord knows why, but they do.”  _

_ She shoots him a wink, hoping that he realises the teasing for what it is, but the sad lift in his lips he gives back shows that her attempt at cheering him up has fallen flat. _

_ “Liam wasn’t just top of his class in the academy, and he’s not just the fastest promoted officer in recent history. He’s always been the best at everything, and he’s one of only three people in the history of the Boston PD to get a perfect score on his detective’s exam. He’s set this bar and it’s so high that I’m scared I’ll never live up to it.” _

_ She’s up and off the floor before she knows it, at his side, grabbing one of his clenched fists.  _

_ “Hey, you have to stop trying to compare everything you do to how Liam would do it. You aren’t the same person. Liam, he’s, well, he’s a little self righteous if you ask me.” He tries to interject, and she knows he’s about to defend his brother, but she won’t let him. “No, he is. And I get it. You two had it rough and he had to grow up too fast. But Killian, it’s okay that he’s so formal and by the books and that you aren’t.” _

_ He’s eyes are fixed on hers, and she can still see the doubt, the fear of failure he lives with daily. He’s usually better at hiding it, but sometimes when it’s just the two of them, he lets the mask slip. He’ll let her in, just in the rare moments that he needs her support to fight away the self doubt.  _

_ “And just between us, of the two Jones brothers, yours is the company I prefer.” _

_ She can hear him take a hard swallow just as she closes her eyes, letting her body move forward. Letting her feel his lips against hers, unresponsive, but only for a moment before he’s moving in tandem with her.  _

_ The kiss isn’t long. It’s happened a handful of times before, usually when one of them was drunk or had just made a big bust. And it never went beyond that. It’s never gone beyond that, and even though sometimes she fantasizes about what it would be like to be with him, to really be with him, she’s not sure she can take the risk that she's wrong about him. She’s been burned before, and can’t lose Killian that way too. _

_ She thinks he understands, that he feels the same way since he’s never tried anything more.  _

_ They break apart and without hesitation, she moves back to her spot on the carpet next to the coffee table to grab her book.  _

_ “Just making you take your own advice to get out of your head for a minute.” She winks at him again and this time there’s an audible chuckle. _

He got a perfect score on that exam, just like his brother before him. She did well enough to promote not long after him. She got assigned to homicide while he got his dream job in the narcotics division one floor up.

It was strange at first, not seeing him everyday on patrol, instead only getting glimpses of him on the elevator or in the lobby in the morning. Having to schedule drinks at the Salty Wench a couple of nights a week, which eventually became a once a month thing. It was okay though. Both of them were excelling in their careers. She got partnered with August within a month of becoming a detective, something she still thinks was likely a PR stunt from media relations. Something to boost the PD image. The two of them, the posterboard for troubled teens now respected law enforcement professionals. What a glowup story. 

“And what pray tell are we talking about over here ladies?”

August wastes no time in pulling up a chair to their little table in the back corner of the breakroom. Emma’s always admired him that; the ease he has in any situation with any group of people. He’s always been confident in a carefree way. Guess that’s a win for nature over nurture. 

“Oh, not much. Just the renasonician piece of artwork that is Captain Jones.”

“Whoa. That’s a big negative ghost writer. That pattern is completely full.”

Emma doubt’s that Annie understands the reference, but the point is made as Annie’s face falls.

“So he’s taken then?” 

“No, I wouldn’t say that taken is necessarily the word for it. He’s just not into dating any of the lovely ladies right now. Hasn’t been for awhile.” She appreciates the way August keeps things casual. Taking the emotional boulder from Emma’s shoulders onto his own. “But, I can give credit where credit is due.”

There’s a moment, just after Annie notices the way August is taking in Killian’s form as he leans against a beam, reading a file while he waits for his lunch to finish warming up. Emma can see the exact second that it finally dawns on her. That August Boothe has a type that neither of them fit.

“Wait!” It’s almost a screech and Emma has to move her hand in front of her face to hide in embarrassment. “Is he? Are you two, you know?”

He’s about to make a quip, something that will leave Annie guessing for days, but she can’t do that. Can’t let the rumor mill stir up anymore about Killian than it already has.

“Please, he couldn’t handle it. Even on a bad day Boothe here is way out of Killian’s league.”

“Damn straight!” 

She and August don’t even have to look at each other to give the perfect high five. It’s just muscle memory at this point.

August does make another quip, one about how the new DA is more to his standards and how he’d catalogue his evidence any day. It’s a stupid joke but it makes them all laugh. She doesn’t even think, the amusement slipping from somewhere deep inside her.

She usually tries not to call attention to herself when Killian is around, preferring to blend into the background like a wallflower. But this time she’s caught off guard, and between the three of them, they’ve made a scene. She stops, but it’s too late. Even without looking up she can feel his eyes on her, can feel the contempt he has for her even just being in his presence. 

She doesn’t know how to fix it. The thing that broke between them. She’s not even sure what she did wrong. But it’s done, whatever it was, and there’s no mending it.

He grabs his tupperware out of the microwave, not even letting the timer finish and throws it away in the trash can next to the counter, and without so much as a word, only the tensing of his jaw, he’s gone.

It stays the same, day in and day out, week after week, month after month. She does her best to avoid him, and he her. Her assignments usually come by way of Lance, the poor middle man trying to keep the peace. Her case reports move through Lance as well. The only congratulations she and August ever get for closing some of their tougher cases comes from the lieutenant, or from their colleges. Never from the Captain. 

It’s Emma’s birthday, or what she celebrates as her birthday. It’s a little hard to tell considering the way she was left on the side of the road. The way that anyone in the foster care system that might have known never bothered to keep up with the paperwork.

But it’s okay, because she’s got August, and he’s been there for almost every birthday since she was six years old, when they both lived with Ingrid. She still remembers that first cake, she’d never had a birthday party before, and even without having any real friends to invite over, Ingrid had made it so special, just the three of them.

She’s got friends now though. More than she ever thought possible. And she’s got August, singing along to Smooth Criminal with a childrens reverberating microphone that he bought just for that very purpose. She’s laughing harder than she has in months, the tequila in her veins helping her to relax for a change. 

“Emma, are you okay? Are you okay, Emma?”

He’s not a horrible singer, but he’s not the best. Neither is Ruby from the forensics lab either, but the sound of cheers around her from most of the 56th precinct is music to her ears.

She’s so engrossed in Ruby’s encore of Hit Me Baby One More Time that she doesn’t even notice Killian standing in the doorway, but August does.

“Oi!” Emma realises too late what’s happening and is powerless to stop it. The mockery in August’s voice. “Look at this cheeky bloke here coming to get pissed with us mates!” 

There’s cheers from the crowd, and now there’s no way Killian can just leave unseen. She also knows there’s likely going to be a massive pile of grunt work on her desk first thing in the morning as retribution. 

“Captain!”

“I uh, I can’t stay. Just wanted to drop by and wish you all well.”

He’s waving them off, and Emma just prays that August knows well enough to let it go, but he’s had too much to drink to think clearly. His inhibitions are lowered, and long gone is his ability to think clearly.

“Bollocks! Come have a cuppa with us,” August continues, raising his nearly empty beer bottle, “in Emma’s honor.”

She can see the smugness forming on August’s face as he challenges Killian. It’s only matched but the sneer Killian shoots him in return. 

Killian doesn’t say anything, just walks to the bar and orders a drink. She knows what’s inside the glass the bartender is handing him. She knows that it won’t be the only drink he orders that night. 

Things mostly go back to normal. Everyone mingles amongst themselves, and as the night goes on, she assumes that August’s little outburst earlier was the worst of it. But August hasn’t stopped drinking, and a drunk August has awful judgement. 

It’s almost midnight, and she should be leaving, knowing that all of the aspirin in the world isn’t going to save them from having to be at work in the morning. She’s trying to leave actually, but Ruby and Annie convince her to stay for just a few more minutes. 

It’s one minute too long. Especially when August stands up near the bar, calling for everyone to be silent so he can give a speech. Considering that he’s probably way past the legal limit, the speech is actually impressive and emotionally moving. He knows her better than anyone after all. 

It’s the perfect ending to the night, except that it isn’t. Because August has no plans of letting her leave without some words of encouragement from their mentor, Captain Jones. Killain declines, warning him that he’s drunk and should go home. August won’t let it go though.

“Seriously man, what’s your problem?”

“Boothe, you’re inebriated and you need to think carefully about what you say next.”

Emma grabs August’s arm, trying to drag him out of the pub, but he won’t budge.

“No, no. You’re right, I am inebriated. And what’s that saying? A drunk man’s words are a sober man's thoughts?”

“Boothe.” It’s a growled out warning. Killian’s never been a fan of August, even in the early days, and Emma knows that he’s been looking for any chance to put the man in his place.

“So here’s the thing. Both drunk me and sober me want to know what your deal is. What the hell crawled up your ass? Is it because she wouldn’t sleep with you, so now you’re punishing her?”

“Patrol duty, one week.” Killian’s malcontent is evident in every word he yells, and now the entire pub is silent, watching the carnage taking place.

And there’s nothing Emma can do to stop August’s arm from pulling away and decking Killian clear across the jaw. 

There’s just silence, and the hissing sound August makes as he shakes his hand out.

“That’s it. You're suspended indefinitely.”

She hears Killian mumble the word prink under his breath as he makes his way to the door, and she’s torn about what to do. But when Archie hands her a bag of ice, the choice is made for her, and she goes after Killian. 

Maybe it’s the tequila making her brave, or maybe it’s making her stupid, but she just needs to know what she did to make him hate her so much. She’s tortured herself, going through every interaction they had at the hospital. Trying to dissect every word, but she has nothing. No explanation for what could have happened between him confessing his love for her and then forbidding her to go to Liam’s funeral.

“Killian!” She has to jog to catch up to where he’s standing on the corner trying to hail a cab. “Here. Take this.”

She tries to hand him the bag of ice, but he won’t meet her gaze.

“Go back inside, Emma.”

Emma. He’s never called her that before and its stings for some reason. She turns, but the last shot if tequila is still kicking in, and she needs to know, and as horrible as August’s approach was, it’s the first real opportunity she’s had to be alone with him. Choosing to stand her ground for once, she turns back to him.

“Look, I know that this probably wasn’t the best way to approach this, but I think I deserve to at least know what I did. What was so horrible that you can’t even stand the sight of me anymore?”

“Go back inside, Emma.”

It stings just as much the second time, and gives Emma the fight inside of her that she needs.

“No. I don’t get it. I don’t understand. Please, just help me understand it.” She’s got tears forming in her eyes from the anger of it all, and he’s still just so damn dismissive. “You don’t get it do you? I saved your life and somehow I still lost you that night!”

“I was scared I was dying. I didn’t mean it. God, don’t you understand? I never loved you. You’ve just been clinging to me all of these years, this sad little orphan and I felt guilty, like I had to say it!” There’s so much spite in his voice.

“You told me you loved me. I was there, covered in your blood, fighting for you, for us, and you told me you loved me. You don’t get to just take it back.”

_ She hasn’t seen him in the better part of a year. It was only supposed to be a six month assignment, he promised her, but eleven months later, he’s still undercover. Liam won’t tell her anything, and even if he would, the chances are that he doesn’t know much either. Somewhere around month seven Killian stopped checking in regularly. He was paranoid that they were on to him and didn’t want anyone to see him with his handler.  _

_ The only reason she even knows that he’s still alive is from security footage at the docks where a deal had gone down about a week before. All of the men were in masks, and anyone else reviewing the tape probably would have missed it, the barest hint of a tattoo sticking out from just under his left wrist sleeve. From the camera angle, it looks like the tip of a dagger, but it’s a point, one of eight. She knows the meaning behind it too, a compass that he got etched into his skin on his eighteenth birthday. Something to always remind him of where he’s been and where he was going.  _

_ To keep him always moving forward in life. Aside from letting down Liam, Killian’s biggest fear has always been turning out like his dad, a poor, unfortunate soul. A lost boy who never grew up into a man worthy of his children’s respect.  _

_ It’s hard. Knowing that he’s out there, only being able to imagine what he’s going through. If he’ll still be ‘him’ when he comes back, not letting herself wonder ‘if’ he’ll come back. They’ve both seen what can happen when someone goes too deep, how they come back fractured. A part of them left behind, the humanity shed away, sloughed off to make room for their new toughened skin. Peter went too deep and came back in a bodybag, courtesy of a bullet from her gun. _

_ He promised her he wouldn’t lose himself though, that he’d come back to her. That he was a survivor.  _

_ But then again, he’d always promised her he wouldn’t go undercover without talking to her first, and he’d broken that promise, volunteering without much prompting, only telling her as he was leaving the station for the last time. The truth was that they’d grown apart in the year before he left. Their careers pulling them in different directions, and she wasn’t sure how well she knew him anymore. Of course, she’d also never expected him to develop a romantic relationship with a heroin king’s sister, but she’d seen evidence photos of the girl sitting on Killian’s lap, so what did she know.  _

_ There’s a commotion coming from down the hallway near the bullpen, and Emma doesn’t want to be around people, not like this. Not when it’s taking everything she has not to let the tears welling in her eyes fall, not to scream and punch the wall. Trying so hard to hold herself together when she’s barely hanging on. _

_ She takes a right, ducking into an evidence room, closing the door behind her. She walks to a table, lets her hands grasp the edges, the cold metal against her skin helping to anchor her to reality. She takes a few deep breaths, the air burning her lungs in a way that reminds her she’s still here. She has to accept it. He’s gone, and she’s just going to have to learn to live with that fact. _

_ Except he’s not gone. Her eyes go wide at the sound of his voice behind her, not even realizing that someone had slipped into the room with her.  _

_ “Swan.” _

_ It’s soft, like he’s testing the sound of it on his tongue. _

_ “Killian?” _

_ He’s standing toe to toe with her in a flash, his arms going around her, one hand tangled in her hair. It’s suffocating almost, how hard he’s pressing her against his chest, but she doesn’t care. Not when he smells of leather and salt air. Not when he’s there with her just like he promised. _

_ “How are you here?” _

_ He leans back and there’s something in his eyes that she’s never seen before. A fire burning behind the icy blue. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the door to the evidence room is thrown open and Emma can hear the proud bellow of his brother. Liam tells him to come to the bullpen, and Killian tries to object, but Liam won’t hear of it.  _

_ “I, we’ll talk later, ya?” _

_ She nods, wrapping both of her arms around her torso keeping away the chill that’s entered the room, the way she feels the distance growing between them already. _

_ They never talk about it though. _

There’s something in his eyes that she’s never seen before. A haunting. Shadows filling in the recesses of his soul. And he’s encroaching on her space, making her feel like a small empty shell of herself.

“Killian, please. Stop it.”

“Liam was right you know. You’re nothing more than a pretty blonde distraction.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because, I want to hurt you, like you hurt me.”

He gets into his cab, driving off and leaving her alone on the sidewalk. It’s ironic, the way she’s ending her birthday just as she started her life. Completely alone and unwanted. But it gives her peace in a way. It’s a form of closure. The true end of what they had. She now knows that it’s over. That chapter of her life. She’s ready to finally close the book altogether. 

Her legs carry her into her precinct, she doesn’t even bother with the elevator, taking the stairs instead. Just taking it all in. It’s been her home for years. She’s spent more time there than she has at her own apartment. She knows every dent in every way, all the uneven floor planks. She knows that there’s going to be food left out on Leroy’s desk, and that the only thing that will be on Arthur’s desk is an excalibur shaped letter opener that he uses as a fork more often than not. And she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her desk will have someone new sitting at it before anyone else realizes that she’s gone. 

She fills out the form, leaving it as ambiguous and impersonal as possible. It isn’t until she’s signing her name that she hears someone else walk into the bullpen. 

“I thought it was your big birthday. What are you up here instead of celebrating with everyone?”

She looks up to find Lance standing behind her.

“And I thought you would be at home with those cute kids of yours.”

“I forgot my phone.”

It’s peaceful, this small moment shared between them in a dimly lit room. 

He sees the form, and by the way his face drops, she feels like she’s disappointed him in some way.

“It’s our loss.” There’s something in the way he says it, and she knows he's talking about more than just the precinct transfer order she’s filled out. “May I?”

Emma hands him the pen he’s gestured to and watches as he signs the approval line. He hugs her before he leaves to rejoin his family. The calm feeling he left stays though, even after it’s just her there again, even when she steps into Killian’s office to set the form on his desk. There’s a picture of him with Liam on the desk. She picks it up, letting her fingers brush over Killian’s form, only the barest hint of her shoulder still showing from where he’d cropped her out.

Closure.


	2. Chapter 2

His jaw is killing him and he’s realized all too late that it was a mistake not taking the ice from Emma. But he couldn’t. He can’t have anything to do with her. He can’t even look at her. It’s just too damn painful in every way fathomable.

Sometimes, his heart aches to be near her, to see her smile and pretend for just a moment that it’s before. That everything is still fine and that they’re going to meet up for drinks later. To imagine that they’ll go back to one of their apartments and put on a movie. That she’ll fall asleep on his shoulder and he’ll move so that they’re spooning each other on the couch. It’s on those days he turns to the bottle. 

Other days, the very thought of her sends him into a rage and it’s all he can do not to throw her desk out of the bullpen. He never should have agreed to take the Captain’s position. He should have gone back to the narcotics division, far away from her and the ghost of Liam imprinted into the very fabric of his chair. 

He shouldn’t have done a lot of things. 

He shouldn’t have gone to the Salty Winch tonight. He knew that it was her birthday, try as hard as he might to forget. And he wasn’t planning on going. But something in his subconscious had him driving there against his own better judgement. He was just going to peer in through the window, just go get a look. To see if she was happy. 

And now he’s got a bruise on his face, he’s down a detective, and he’s going to have to call a cab in the morning to take him back to the pub to pick up his car. 

He’s also got a text message from Archie telling him he wants to see him tomorrow before lunch.

He goes to bed, but sleep doesn’t come until hours later.

The next morning is a disaster. There’s two empty desks instead of one, paper work is piling up. Everyone is tiptoeing around him and he can see them watching him out of the corner of his eye. He can hear their hushed whispers, and as much as he doesn’t want to have to schlep all the way down to headquarters, he needs the retreat from being the star of his own tragedy.

Archie’s office is on the third floor, and it isn’t lost on him how many offices he has to pass on the way to what should be a private visit. But then again, nothing about his life has been private lately. He knows that everyone still talks about it. For weeks his portrait graced the cover of every newspaper in town, sometimes next to Liam’s departmental photo. The news was there that night to film him being carried to the ambulance on a stretcher. His name was on the tip of everyone’s tongue as the investigation and trial drug on. 

His detectives don’t trust him, and he knows it’s a problem, as well that he should care, but most days he just can’t find it within himself to give a damn. He buries it all as deeply within himself as possible, just going through the motions. He’s gotten pretty good at ignoring the ways he feels, most times, but Archie is going to want to drag it all up again, especially after last night. 

The office has been redecorated since the last time he was there for his psych evaluation and mandated therapy to determine if he was capable of returning to work. There are more plants in every corner of the room. No doubt the cricket’s way of cheering everyone up while he chirps in their ears. Not that he has anything against Dr. Hopper. The man may very well be the only reason Killian is even still human at this point.

“Killian, thank you for coming. Why don’t you have a seat?”   
  
He doesn’t want to, the black leather is worn and cracked in places, pinching the back of his legs even through his thick cotton pants. 

The man just watches him, waiting to see if he’ll open up, to make the first move, but Killian’s never been much for spilling his guts. He’s not sure talking would even help at this point. Everything has become so twisted that no emotional epiphanies can untangle his problems anymore.

“So, I think you know why I wanted to see you.”

“Aye.”

“My next appointment called in sick so I have all day to wait for you to say something.

Killian sighs, ready to give in to the inevitable, although he’s not completely sure which part of it Archie wants to get into, and he’s treading water trying to keep as much of his life off limits as possible.

“There’s nothing to say really. One of my detectives was drunk, mouthed off, and hit me. His suspension was well earned. I’m not sure there’s anything more to it.”

Archie watches him for a second, tilting his head as he listens to Killian, and before he even opens his mouth, he knows that the cricket chirping in his ear is about to dissect the evening.

“Killian, I think there’s a lot more to it. Clearly there’s been some resentment and animosity building between the two of you for some time more, or August wouldn’t have brought it up.”

He hates this, the way Dr. Hopper is always trying to poke his way through Killian’s brain, trying to unlock doors with a metaphorical paperclip. A one size fits all therapy tool that with enough finesse can open everything he’s trying to hold back.

“I’ll admit, there’s no love lost between the two of us. We’ve never gotten along, even before. But August has never been one to make smart well thought out choices and last night was just another in a long line of mistakes he’s made.”

“Long line, or tipping point?” This isn’t going to work. He isn’t going to let Archie trip him up. He’s not leaving anymore crumbs to follow. “I know you don’t want to discuss this again, but I can’t help but think all of this stems from your relationship with Emma.”

“I don’t have a relationship with Emma.” He doesn’t mean to spit out the words as harshly as he does, it’s just a gut reaction and it’s too late to play it off. “She’s my subordinate, that’s it.”

“You mean she was your subordinate.”

It pisses him off more than he expects, partly because somehow this man miles away already knows that Emma has transferred when he only found out himself a few hours before, but also because it brings up emotions he doesn’t know how to handle. 

“Aye.” All he can do is nod and clinch his jaw, which in turn reminds him of the punch he took last night. He’d give almost anything for some Motrin right now. Better yet, some morphine so he can fall into a sleep where none of this is real.

_ He’s not really sure what’s happening. He knows he’s in the hospital. He can surmise as much by the beeping machines and the blood pressure cuff that’s about to sever his arm clean off. But his eyes are too heavy to open just now, and he doesn’t remember coming to the hospital. He can’t remember why he’s here.  _

_ Until he tries to move, twisting his torso just enough that pain shoots clear up to his eyeballs and he screams out in pain without even realizing it. _

_ There’s a nurse in the room, telling him to relax, and he thinks he hears another voice from the other side of the room, but now his arm is cold and he doesn’t even have time to think before the world goes dark again. _

_ His mouth is dry. He tries to open his lips, but they’ve melding together and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. His body feels so weak and heavy, and it’s a struggle to speak, but even with just a slight moan, he feels his hand squeezed and he knows it’s her just by the way she fits with him. The bed shifts and he hears something new in her voice. She’s timid, like maybe if she speaks too loudly he’ll blow away in the wind. And to be honest, at this point, he very well may. _

_ He forces his eyes open, blinking as much as he can to clear his vision. She’s standing at his side in a Boston PD sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big - pilfered from his closet after a night off of bar hopping turned into a movie at his place - and her hair is pulled up in a messy bun. It might very well be any other Saturday morning, except for her face. It’s puffy and red and she’s clearly been crying. _

_ Emma Swan doesn’t cry. Ever. _

_ He should be worried about himself, but in that moment, he can only think of her and how miserable she looks.  _

_ But then the blood pressure cuff goes off again, reminding him of where he is, and everything comes rushing back. The fight with Liam, the sound of shots ringing out, Emma begging him not to die. He told her he loved her, and he’s angry with himself for waiting so long. It shouldn’t have been a death bed confession. He shouldn’t have put so much stock in Liam’s approval. _

_ Liam. _

_ Liam. _

_ Liam. _

_ He barely gets his brother’s name out before he sees more tears running down her face, and she’s apologizing over and over again. There’s something about the way she says it, like it’s somehow her fault, like she was the one that fired the fatal shot. The pain returns and so does the morphine. _

_ He wakes again, groggy and weak. His eyes are too heavy to open, but perhaps that’s better. Maybe if he can’t see the world around him, he won’t have to face everything to come. Liam’s always been there, even when everyone left, Liam stayed. He doesn’t know how to continue on in a world without him. He doesn’t know how to do anything now and all he can think about is how it should have been him. How he started the argument, he distracted Liam. How he was the one that raised his voice and alerted the killer to their presence.  _

_ He’s in the middle of his downward spiral of self loathing when he hears muffled voices come closer, likely entering his room from the hallway. They speak in hushed whispers as they move around the room, flittering about all around him, lifting his blanket and touching his feet, fumbling with his hand. He still can’t muster the strength to open his eyes, much less his mouth to tell them to leave, so they continue, completely unaware of the way he hears them. Unaware of how they are turning his life upside down. _

_ “Why does this guy look so familiar?” _

_ “Oh, you mean other than the fact that his face is all over the television?” _

_ It’s silent for a bit, and he thinks that maybe they’ve gone finally, but then he hears a tapping noise, like fingers angrily hitting letters on a keyboard. _

_ “It’s really sad actually. Remember Astrid down in the ER?” She waits for the other voice to agree before continuing. “I had lunch with her today and she was telling me how our guy here is cop. Came in with gunshot wounds, along with his brother. They were both in really bad shape. Whale was able to save this one but the brother was too far gone.” _

_ It’s the first time he’s heard the words spoken allowed, and although intrinsically, he knew that Liam was gone, the words are a nail to a coffin. _

_ The voice continues, telling the other one how they were both in shock, having lost so much blood, giving vivid details that tear at him to his very core, but it’s the end of the story that he latches to. _

_ “So there’s nothing they could have done then?” _

_ “I guess we’ll never know. I mean, by the time the ambulance brought him in, he was already gone, but from what Astrid overheard, I guess their back up got there late. One of them ran after the shooter and the other stayed to help and couldn’t save them both.” _

_ “Damn, I can't even imagine. This guy is gonna have some hell of survivor's guilt.” _

_ But it wasn’t guilt that overcame him that night. Instead, it was rage that crept in, filling the hole in his heart. _

“So you still blame Emma then?”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look up from the mark of the coffee table in front of him that he’s been starting at for the last few minutes.

“Killian, the mind is a tricky thing. You were still in shock, heavily medicated, and mourning. Is it possible that maybe you somehow misunderstood what the nurses said that night?” 

That has his attention, and not in a good way. 

“Are you insinuating that I’m a liar?” He leans forward, voice steady, focused on Dr. Hopper and the way he’s now squirming in his chair. “Or do you simply believe that I’m just crazy?”

He’s off the couch, steady quick strides for the door. He’s had enough judgment for the day, and needs to leave before he crams Archie’s notebook down his throat.

“That’s - Killian! That’s not what I meant.”   
  


He’s halfway out the door, but something in the man’s tremble gives him pause.

“I- I just. I spoke to Emma, to August too, after it happened. I just mean that maybe you all have different accounts of what happened that night, and until you sit down and finally clear the air, none of you will be able to heal.”

That has him barking out a laugh. The very idea of either of them being able to make anything right at this point? It’s absurd.

Two weeks pass without much fanfare. August’s desk still sits empty, a magnet for other detective’s paperwork piles, but the seat stays cold. Emma’s desk on the other hand is now occupied by a short stodgy old bald man who seems to be compensating for his hair loss with a long salt and pepper beard that covers half of his face. The man has been nothing but surely since his arrival the week before. He’s managed to piss off most of Killian’s bullpen, and it’s almost laughable how quickly his life has gone totally shits-up on him, but then he remembers that Leroy is going to be August’s partner when he comes back and that’s almost enough to satiate Killian’s frustration.

Almost. 

Because August isn’t coming back, at least not to his division. There’s an opening in Narcotics, Killian’s old team, and while is not a transfer Killian would ever normally agree to, it's not a typical assignment. Despite his reservations, he knows August is good as his job and the best fit.

That’s the only reason he finds himself walking back into the Salty Winch at 10:29 on a Tuesday morning. August isn’t there yet, which doesn’t surprise him in the least. The truth is, he doesn’t honestly even know if the man will show at all, never having responded to his message. 

It’s odd being back in that building, the incident from a few weeks ago notwithstanding. The derelict bar has always been special to him in a way he can’t explain, like an extension of himself. Liam brought him there after his first collar, saying a celebration was in order, and that one night somehow became a long standing tradition. Looking at the scuff marks near the well, he remembers Ruby’s attempts at clogging in 6 inch stilettos and the pub owner nearly crying at the sight of his ruined wood floors. He remembers Lance throwing up in the peanut bucket at the end of the bartop at his bachelors party.

But taking a seat in the booth in the back right corner, all he can see is her face the night they met.

_ It’s been a damn good day, and each sip of the rum in his glass dances it’s way down his throat, warming him on the way down. He’s buzzed to be certain, but hasn’t had nearly enough to be drunk, and Will intends to remedy that as soon as possible if the third round he just ordered is any indication. _

_ They’d been after a small time dealer for months, and on the day they finally go to bust the guy, they somehow luck into nabbing one of the largest suppliers in the city by sheer dumb luck. But no one needs to know that. Not when he and Scarlett have just received public commendations from the commissioner himself. Not when he’s wearing his medal on his shirt like a goddamn first place science fair ribbon. Not when his name is being floated around as someone to keep an eye on.  _

_ And sure as hell not when the most gorgeous creature he’s ever laid eyes on has just walked into his pub and sat herself four bar stools over. To say that he’s gobsmacked is an understatement. It’s dark, but even in the dim pendant lit room he catches a glimpse of her eyes. They’re emeralds, sparkling as the light from a glass bottle being poured reflects in them.  _

_ He’s so infatuated with this woman in her tight red leather dress that he’s apparently missed an entire conversation, only his name on repeat is enough to pull his attention back to his mates. _

_ “Oh bloody hell, I think we lost ‘em boys.” _

_ There’s a heat overcoming his face and he’s not quite sure why. He’s left with many a fine lass from this very bar on other, much less eventful nights. His boys are no strangers to the effect he has on women, but perhaps this time it has something to do with the effect she’s having on him. This enchantress that’s beguiling him. _

_ Perhaps the last shot was a mistake. _

_ After some merciless teasing he’s out of his seat, making his way to the empty spot on the other side of her. He waits for a second, casually watching her send an email from the corner of his eye before making his move yelling out to the bartender.  _

_ “Robin, can I get my tab? I need to head across the street and file a complaint.” _

_ She’s startled, her eyes flitting between him, the bartender, and her phone.  _

_ “Oh, what for?” Robin walks over with a towel and glass in hand, and a coy grin on his face. This may or may not be the first time he’s used this ruse before. _

_ “Well, this woman here has just stole me beating heart right from my chest.” _

_ She groans and rolls her eyes, and while it may not be the first time he’s used the line, it’s certainly the first time it’s ever not been reciprocated.  _

_ “Please tell me that line doesn’t actually work on girls.” _

_ He can’t help but smile despite how epically he’s failed. And while she’s clearly not amiable to going back to his place with him tonight, she doesn’t outright reject his offer to buy her drink, or even a second one after that. _

_ Somehow the two of them move to the booth in the back. He learns that she’s from the 42nd, a vice cop just coming from her last shift. The red leather dress is a departing gift of sorts from her supervisor, by way of a prostitution sting. She’s transferring to his precinct tomorrow and just wanted to come get a feel for the area before her first day.  _

_ They talk until the bar closes somehow, and when her cab pulls up, he takes his shot one more time. This time she laughs him off and tells him she’ll see him tomorrow. He gets his own cab, and even though he’s going home alone tonight, he’s still got a shit eating grin on his face when he walks through his apartment door, her laugh echoing through his head like music. _

August arrives in true fashion, twenty minutes late, and Killian isn’t sure if the man is just being disrespectful or trying to somehow create an illusion of control over the situation. Either way, he’s not happy, although he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit to himself that he’s happy that the man won’t be around for a while.

Boothe has always rubbed him the wrong way. Even before Emma, August had a way of pissing him off, always shooting off his mouth and trying to one up him. In truth, his annoyance turned to hatred when he learned of how close the man was with Emma. They had inside jokes and secret looks, and Killian always felt like an outsider. Eventually he learned that August was practically Emma’s brother, having been raised together in the foster system, but hearing of how Boothe was the one that introduced Emma to her first love, and man that led her down a path of petty crime, it only solidified in Killian’s mind that August Boothe is an arse of a man with no redeeming qualities.

Which is also the exact thing that he needs right now. The two of them sit in that back booth, discussing the matter at hand. The narcotics division has been trying to catch the supplier of pixie dust, a drug that’s recently made its way to Boston from New York. They have a fairly good idea who the importer is, but they haven’t been able to catch him thanks to a mole in their ranks. One of their own has been tipping off Walsh Nikko and their captain is fairly certain it’s Jefferson.

A man by all rights is mad as a hatter. Killian had only dealt with the man a few times, but undercover work had taken its toll on Jefferson and he returned from a botched assignment with demons in his soul. 

Killian explains everything to August. How Captain Humbert needs him to come in as a disgruntled cop, how he needs to break rules and make his distaste of the Boston PD known. That it shouldn’t be difficult given their recent encounter and his suspension. 

He knows it’s working when snippets of August’s ranting about his character get back to him.

* * *

His adrenaline is waning and his stomach turns. He barely makes it away from everyone on scene into a back alley before the remainder of his lunch is spilling out of him. He’s never been so terrified in his life, and nothing is right. Nothing makes sense, and he’s still hurling his guts out. There’s blue and red flashes of light coloring the clouds above them as nearly all of Boston has turned out to the scene. 

There’s going to be mountains of paperwork, but that’s tomorrow's problem. Right now, he just needs to get out of there, far away from the flashing photography bulb and the interviews. Away from the smell of blood, the screams he swears are still echoing in the building. He just needs to get away.

He’s not sure how he ends up here. He’s not even sure how he knows that address, but his feet have somehow brought him here and he knows that he can’t keep holding everything in. He can only pack it all down so much before the latches break and everything explodes around him.

Dr. Hopper doesn’t even seem surprised to find him standing outside of his brownstone, just motions for him to come inside. Archie goes to get him a towel, which he tries to refuse. It’s only at the man’s instistance that he realizes that he has blood on his jacket, and that’s his breaking point.

_ There’s blood on his jacket, and despite scrubbing it for the length of the car ride back to the precinct, he’s standing on the steps to the 56th and it’s still there. He’ll likely have to burn the damn thing. As remissed as he is though to discard his favorite article of clothing, it’s not the jacket that causes him pause.  _

_ He’s thought about this moment a lot of the last year. Wondering if she will be happy to see him, if she’ll care at all. There was a distance between them before he left, a chasm of his own doing, and when he told her he was leaving, he couldn’t miss the look in her eyes. A flash of betrayal and distrust, and while she’s the only thing that’s carried him through the last eleven months, he knows the chances of her thinking of him in the same way are lower than he cares to admit.  _

_ He’s thought of it so many times, playing it out over and over in his mind. How he’s going to find her and finally confess his feelings. Of how he can’t keep pretending that friendship with her is enough from him, that he wants more. How the random kisses they share are like knives to his heart showing him of what could be but isn’t. He’s played it out so many times, but never was he standing before her in a blood stained jacket. _

_ But now that she’s there and in his arms clinging to him just as strongly as he is her, he couldn’t care less. She’s soft and warm and still smells of cinnamon just as he remembered, and her touch soothes the monsters whispering inside him. He felt broken the whole time he was gone, but she’s mending him.  _

_ He finally breaks away, he needs to tell her, he needs to just get the words out, but before he can, Liam is behind him ordering him to the bullpen, and now isn’t the time. It’s not a rushed conversation to have with people yelling his name from another room.  _

_ “I, we’ll talk later, ya?” _

_ She nods, and it’s only then that he notices the faint tears that have been freshly wiped away.  _

_ They never talk about it though. _

_ Liam takes him out to dinner, just the two of them, and by the time he gets home, the monsters are back, reminding him of all the things he’s done. Of what a villain he is now, and he knows that he’s not good enough for her. _ __

His monsters are back, screaming, drowning out anything good and all he sees is the dark. Archie brings him a glass of rum, telling him after the night he’s had, he deserves it. And they talk. For the first time, Killian lets the walls down and tells Archie about all of it. All of the dastardly deeds he did while undercover. About how everything that has happened since is his fault, it’s because people like him don’t deserve happy endings.

Archie rebukes everything he says, but it does little to ease his conscience. He leaves Hopper’s house feeling slightly lighter though having unburdened himself, and possibly hopeful for the first time in years. But he’s still got a lot of work to do, and he knows it’s going to take time. 

His suitcase is packed before it ever even occurs to him to call his commander and tell him that he needs a sabbatical. He expects pushback. Hell, he expects the man to tell him he’s fired, but his commander understands and tells him to take whatever time he needs. That they’ll find a place for him whenever he’s ready. 

Liam’s boat is still in the harbor just as he remembers it. She’s been neglected the past two years, his own fault to be certain, and she’ll need some work as well, but she’s sea worthy enough, and he can’t be in Boston anymore. The sails are unfurled and he’s just pushing off when he pulls his phone out of his pocket, making one last call.

She doesn’t answer, he knows she won’t, and perhaps that’s why he’s calling her now, when he knows she’s busy. Instead he leaves a message, telling her that he loves her, that he always has and always will, but that he’s broken. That he needs some time to clear his head if he wants to be a man deserving of her heart. 

He’s a bastard and a coward.

And then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, you’re not crazy. The chapter count grew a little. My sincerest apologies guys. I have a lot of stuff going on in my personal life that’s taken most of my attention. I really didn’t mean for this next part to be so delay, and honestly, time has become an allusion at this point and I didn’t even realize that 6 weeks had passed. I was thinking closer to 3, so thank you for staying with me on this little journey, and hope you enjoy.


End file.
